


brokeback beach house

by hardlythewiser (sequinedfairy)



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-04
Updated: 2017-06-04
Packaged: 2018-11-08 19:13:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,048
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11088135
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sequinedfairy/pseuds/hardlythewiser
Summary: "It’s summer, we have a beach house to get to.”





	brokeback beach house

**Author's Note:**

> based on [this universe](https://veryspecificfantasies.tumblr.com/post/159975520874/baking-soda-podsavemysoul), with great gratitude to [nahco3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/nahco3/pseuds/nahco3) for coming up with the idea with me, [ymorton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ymorton) for moral support and guidance, and [threeturn](http://archiveofourown.org/users/threeturn) for her always impeccable beta-ing.
> 
> as always, keep it secret, keep it safe, be chill.

It’s five on a Friday, and Jon's dress shirt has been sticking to him since he left his apartment this morning. He undoes his tie, because whatever. Barely anyone is in the office anyway, everyone sneaking away to get the hell out of the swamp that is DC. He packs up his laptop and prepares himself to drag Tommy out of his cave of classified info and briefings. They’re already going to hit traffic, but if they leave right now they’ll miss the worst of it.

He walks down the hall and knocks on Tommy’s door, shut as usual. When Tommy doesn’t respond, he opens the door. Tommy’s staring at his computer, back ramrod straight but shoulders a little too high under his shirt. Jon has the weirdest impulse to put his thumb into the knot of muscle right by his neck and push until it releases, until Tommy lets out a deep breath and relaxes for once. “Hey, Tommy,” he says, knocking on the doorway.

Tommy startles, looking over at Jon. “Fuck, what’s up?” he asks, looking worried.

“Nothing, dude,” Jon tells him. Tommy always assumes the worst, especially the last few years. “It’s just that it’s five, wanna get out of here? The 50 will already be a mess, but if we leave now it shouldn’t be too bad.”

Tommy swallows, and Jon can see his Adam’s apple bob. “I should really finish this statement,” he says. He’s in a full suit, sleeves not rolled up — he probably had a meeting with the President today, but Jon knows that even Obama is going away for the weekend.

“C’mon,” he says. “All the reporters have already gone home. John Boehner hasn’t been here in weeks. It’s summer, we have a beach house to get to.”

Looking back at his statement, Tommy makes a little mhmm noise. He types a few more words, and Jon walks in, drops onto his couch so he has a better view of Tommy. It’s his first summer in the White House without Lovett, and it’s draining, to be so hot and gross all the time, to work so much. He keeps thinking about Lovett out in LA, working on his sitcom by the ocean. This is still his dream, it’s the best job he could imagine, he’s the speechwriter for President Obama, but sometimes he just wants to take a break.

Maybe Tommy would want to take a break with him, move out to California. They could do like. Screenwriting. Consulting. Whatever. Tommy would look good in California, he could wear his sunglasses, get tan. Maybe he’d undo a few buttons on his button-downs, put down his messenger bag for once. Jon has an image of him and Lovett and Tommy all sitting on a patio somewhere, drinking beer in the middle of the day, laughing. Maybe they could get some dogs. It’s a good image.

Tommy shuts his laptop firmly, and Jon shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Okay, if we escalate conflict with China, Ben Rhodes won’t be able to say it’s my fault,” Tommy says. “Let’s go.”

They walk to Tommy’s car. Jon left his duffel bag in the trunk by accident last Sunday night, and Tommy told him not to worry about it, that he’d throw Jon's stuff in the laundry with his own. It's not like Jon cares what he wears at the beach, anyway.

Tommy's a good driver, easy and confident behind the wheel. Jon always offers to drive, but Tommy brushes him off, tells him he likes it. By now, Jon has learned to settle into the passenger seat, plug in his phone and put on the driving playlist, starting with Springsteen. Tommy pulls out of the parking spot and guides them onto the road, not needing directions. The sun is still high in the sky, and they get stuck in traffic pretty quickly, everyone trying to get out, but Tommy doesn't seem to mind. He drums his long fingers against the steering wheel to the beat of the Allman Brothers song that's playing. The sun is low in the sky on his side of the car, lighting him up so his hair looks golden, like a halo in a picture of a saint. Jon can see the bags under his eyes, which weren’t there when they left the beach last weekend. Hopefully, they’ll be mostly gone by Sunday night, though he knows they’ll be back by Wednesday at the latest.

In California, almost no one has bags under their eyes, Jon had noticed when he was out there for the fundraiser.

Jon can feel his eyes closing as he leans against the car window and watches Tommy drive. The farther they get from the city, the looser his hands get on the steering wheel, and Jon likes seeing that. He drifts off to Tommy whistling along to a song he can't remember the name of that he remembers his dad singing along to on road trips.

***

They put meat in the freezer and beer in the fridge last week, so there’s no need to leave once they get to the house. Jon strips off his gross clothes and pulls on an old Obama for Senate t-shirt, worn thin from the wash. It smells like Tommy’s clothes, which makes sense, considering he washed it. His boxers are gross, so he takes them off too, pulls on some light sweats with _HOLY CROSS_ almost totally worn off on the side.

Jon wanders into the tiny kitchen, where Tommy’s defrosting their steaks, shoulders stretching out his Kenyon lax shirt. There’s a beer already open on the counter, and Jon snags it.

“I started that one, you dick. Yours is there,” he says, indicating the beer on the other side of the kitchen.

“Too bad,” Jon tells him. Tommy shoves him half-heartedly, and leans over Jon to grab the other beer, taking a long pull. He tilts his head all the way back, throat bared, and Jon still feels thirsty from the car, takes a gulp of his beer.

The Sox are playing tonight, and Tommy finds a radio station on his phone that will give them the details, bitches about data but they both know it’s worth it. Tommy grills, hands in the grill mitts, and Jon gives him sips of beer when he needs it. They laugh about the Boston accent of the announcer, and Jon watches Tommy’s shoulders lower and his face relax. He sends a pic to Lovett, because Lovett always yells at him about letting Tommy turn into a “tragic Victorian homosexual child who’s gonna die from scarlet fever,” whatever the fuck that means.

His phone buzzes a minute later, and he looks away from Tommy to check it. Lovett’s texted _Omg are you doing brokeback beach house again this weekend??_

 _What?_ Jon texts back.

_You know brokeback beach house where you two go off to hide from the cruel heterosexual world of DC and catch fish instead of herding cattle or whatever but still_

_We’re at the beach house this weekend but why “brokeback”_

_God you’re so straight it’s disgusting. Get some culture  
At least Tommy looks cute, good job on that_

“Lovett thinks you look cute,” Jon announces to Tommy, because it’s the least weird part of the whole exchange, but Tommy still should have to deal with Lovett. Tommy goes pink, and Jon considers taking another picture to send to Lovett, but he doesn’t, just keeps looking at Tommy.

“Uh, tell him thanks, I guess,” Tommy says. Jon doesn’t tell him. It feels, suddenly, like it did sometimes right before Lovett left, where he’d be hanging out on their couch and look up to glances between them that Jon was clearly not supposed to notice. It made Jon feel like he was on the outside of a glass conference room, peering in on someone getting fired or promoted or something. He closes Whatsapp, putting his phone face down on the table. He goes into the kitchen to get them plates and forks and knives, managing to grab two beers in one hand.

By the time he comes back, the steaks are ready, and Tommy puts one on each plate. They sit on the patio, bug candle in the middle not really doing anything but making it smell weird. Tommy smiles at him across the table, big and real and so much better than the tired, forced smile Tommy gives him when Jon brings him a snack after he emerges from the sitroom, looking pale and shaking a little, just visible if you're looking for it.

“If we lived in California, you could do this every night,” Jon says.

“Do what?” Tommy asks, still cutting his steak.

Jon isn’t sure how to word his vague mental image, of Tommy grilling in a backyard every night, Jon eating salmon or whatever people eat in California, Lovett making them both laugh, everyone together in the warm night air with wisteria or jasmine or whatever it was Lovett said he had in his backyard. “Grill,” he says.

“I’d probably get bored of grilling every night,” Tommy says, fiddling with his beer label.

“You wouldn’t have to grill,” Jon says, feeling awkward. “Just like, you could come home at a normal person hour and eat outside and not have to wake up at six to look at briefing papers.”

“What would I do in California?” Tommy asks.

“Whatever you want,” Jon says.

Tommy peels off the rest of his beer bottle, slowly, not leaving any sticky stuff. “That’s a nice thought,” he says. Jon can hear the waves in the distance, crashing, in the space after Tommy’s words.

Tommy looks less relaxed than he did when he was grilling, and Jon isn’t sure how to bring the slack, happy look on his face back. “Did you hear who the new closer is going to be?” he asks.

Tommy looks back at Jon, smiling again. “It’s ridiculous, I know. What are they thinking?”

***

Scrubbing the dishes, Jon looks out the kitchen window, sees Tommy walking around the house, checking on the drainpipe that was clogged when they left. He’s mostly a silhouette in the darkness, broad shoulders dipping into his waist, sturdy and tall. He leaves the dishes in the drying rack, goes out to the porch to wait for Tommy.

Tommy settles in next to him on the porch swing with his biography of LBJ, big enough to brain someone with. It’s not even his whole life, only the second or third part, and Jon doesn’t get it, but Tommy looks entranced when he reads it, barely ever looking up, fingers stilling where they rest on Jon's arm.

Jon sinks farther into the swing, sliding down a little, thigh pressed to Tommy’s. Tommy’s rocking them slowly, and Jon can feel his eyes start to close again. For all he talks about Tommy needing sleep, he’s been up since six himself, went on a run and worked through Obama’s comments on the latest draft, talked to him about how to incorporate a stronger narrative. Tommy’s nice and warm next to him, his shoulder the perfect height for Jon to lean on.

He blinks his eyes open to Tommy shaking his shoulder, gently, saying, “Hey, Jon, let’s get to bed.” Jon mumbles, reaching his arm out to Tommy where he’s standing in front of him. Tommy dips his head down, laces his fingers through Jon's and threads Jon's arm over his shoulder, pulling Jon up to his feet.

Tommy walks him to his room, deposits him on the bed. Jon catches his wrist, pulling him in when Tommy turns to leave. Tommy pauses, looks at him, and Jon wakes up a little more, drops Tommy’s wrist and fists his hand into the comforter. “Night,” he says, blearily.

Tommy waits a single more second, watching Jon, before turning away. Jon feels a little unsteady, like a football’s stuck in his chest. It must be the beers of the night hitting him hard, even though he’d only had a few. “Good night,” Tommy says, backlit by the doorway, his face shadowed so that Favs can’t make out even a hint of an expression.

It takes a while for Jon to fall asleep, the beers churning in his stomach, his hand opening and closing around the comforter. The bed is weirdly cold, even though it's a hot night.

***

Jon wakes up to the sun peeking into his window. He can hear Tommy in his room, probably looking for his sneakers. He makes himself roll out of bed, pull on a pair of shorts and a white tank top from a Boston 5k, and lace up his own sneakers. "I'm coming with you!" he calls to Tommy through the wall.

"Hurry up, then," Tommy calls back, from the kitchen or the living room.

Jon grins, tying his last knot and tripping over himself a little as he makes it out to the living room. He doesn't have a hangover, even though he felt pretty drunk falling asleep last night, which is a blessing.

The house looks like every house on the Cape Jon has ever been in: white walls, nautical knick knacks and bad mysteries on the shelves, light streaming in. Tommy's smiling at him from the couch, lounging with his knees apart, not looking at his phone or his computer, just waiting for Jon. Jon feels a little like he's 17 again, like his best friend is out with him at the beach for the week and his parents are at work and there's no one to hold them accountable all day, just sun and sand and waves and stolen beers. It's a good feeling.

They start their run together with the sun only a little over the horizon, the tide low and the beach expansive. There are some wispy clouds in the sky, over where the sun is, but the rest of the sky looks clear. Their paces match exactly, even though Tommy's a little taller than him, but his measured run fits with Jon's. The sand isn't great to run on, but it's worth it to feel the breeze and hear the waves, to look over at Tommy and the ocean, both so familiar and looking right brought together.

By the time they turn back, Jon is getting sweaty, pulls off his shirt and tucks it into the back of his shorts. The sun is shining into Tommy's eyes and he's squinting against it, his face wrinkled up. The water’s coming back up the beach, and they angle themselves at a slight diagonal to avoid it.

Tommy's shirt is sticking to his shoulders, back, and chest in big patches when they get back to the house, and his cheeks are bright pink. There’s a stark contrast between the bright blue, cloudless sky, Tommy’s white t-shirt, and the pink-gold of his body. It looks like an old picture, of a summer your parents had before you were born, maybe. "You can have first shower," Tommy offers, magnanimous as always.

Jon is going to fight him on it, but Tommy shoves him, tells him not to stink up anything. The shower feels good, hot spray on his sore muscles. He jerks off perfunctorily, mostly thinking about the day ahead, beach and swimming and making dinner, Tommy with him all day.

He washes off quickly, not looking at or thinking about anything. While he's walking to his room, he sees Tommy, shirt already off, sitting on the couch. His hips are pale, his hipbones sharp. He’s frowning down at his phone, clearly checking his email. He types at a breakneck speed, and Jon pauses to watch him, feeling bad that Tommy can never really take a break, even as he’s glad Tommy’s protecting the world. “Shower’s free,” he calls to Tommy, and Tommy nods, not looking up, absorbed in his work.

Jon wonders if he used up all the hot water, if Tommy’s shower will be nice and hot too, when he makes it there, or if it’ll be cold and leave him shivering. He walks over to Tommy, shakes his wet hair onto Tommy’s face. Tommy looks up, laughing, and pushes Jon away by the forehead. Jon leans into his hand, bumping his nose against Tommy’s wrist. “C’mon, go take a shower, I want to get to the beach,” he says. “The emails can wait, you’re out of town.”

“They can’t, actually,” Tommy says, sounding frustrated. Jon feels bad -- his job is predictable, mostly, he can take a weekend off as long as he works 15-hour-days from Tuesday through Thursday, but Tommy’s is constant, like being an Avenger or a doctor always on-call. He starts to move his head away, but Tommy’s hand follows it, sliding around so he’s cupping the back of his head.

“Sorry,” Jon says. “I know they can’t.”

They’re quiet for a second, Tommy finally looking up from his phone. “No,” he says finally, on a long exhale. “You’re right, I’m out of town. I’ll finish this email and get in the shower, I promise.” He smiles, and it seems real, but Jon is wary. Tommy types one-handed, other hand still in Jon’s hair, and hits send, squeezing Jon’s neck as he does. He stands up, and Jon is suddenly really close to him.Their bare chests are inches from each other, Tommy’s wet with sweat and Jon’s with water. Jon takes a half step back, suddenly aware that he’s still in his towel, that it’s slipping down around his hips.“Wanna make coffee?” Tommy asks, as he puts a steadying hand on Jon’s hip. Jon nods, and Tommy steps away, pushing his shorts down as he walks towards the bathroom, paler and paler skin being exposed.

***

Jon wakes up from a nap, drifting out of a dream with no real thread, just the vague sense of being young, maybe college, maybe high school, except Tommy was there too, and maybe Obama, too, looking like he did in pictures from when he was in his twenties, no grey hair or wrinkles from Republicans. They had gone to a pool, maybe, or a lake, eaten ice cream. Jon remembers the sensation of being both too hot and too cold, but not wanting to change anything.

He stretches his arms up, past the edge of the towel, and makes a sleepy, lazy sound. The sun’s no longer being blocked by Tommy’s Red Sox hat, and he’s going to have to readjust. Tommy looks at him and grimaces. “Dude, I told you to put on sunscreen. You’re totally burned.”

Jon's skin is bright pink when he looks down. “Oops,” he says.

“At least put it on now,” Tommy says, reaching over to the beach bag and tossing him the bottle. “I’ll do your back, but do your front.”

Jon does so, and the cool lotion feels good on his chest and stomach, his arms and neck. He looks up at Tommy, who’s watching him from the beach chair, fucking LBJ book still on his lap. “Good?” he asks.

Tommy leans over to rub some in, in the hollow of his throat. Jon swallows. “Perfect,” Tommy says, and Jon swallows again.

He sits in between Tommy’s shins while Tommy spreads sunscreen evenly and carefully across his back. Jon watches the ocean, but he can’t see any boats, and Tommy’s hands are distracting him. The sunscreen is cold.

Jon arranges the towel so he’s lying sideways, Tommy’s Red Sox hat tilted to block the sun. Jon's feet are under Tommy’s legs, dug into the sand between the chair and his feet. Tommy’s reading his book again, and Jon half-looking at the ocean and half at Tommy’s face squished up against the sun. He’s pink, too, and his freckles are getting more pronounced, up and down his chest. He’ll look good in August, constellations of freckles on his body.

Lovett Facetimes them with whatever weird app he does that with a few minutes -- probably, Jon has lost his sense of time -- later. Jon picks up his phone, which he hasn’t looked at all day. He swipes, barely able to see the screen in the glare, but it’s mostly about hearing Lovett anyway. “Hey, Lovett,” he says.

“Do you think if I film this Brokeback Beach House it could be my ticket to the Oscars? I could do it from here, or I could fly in for a weekend with a whole crew. Maybe this is exactly what I need to be a Hollywood big shot. Ang Lee didn’t know anything about gay Wyoming ranch hands; I’m an expert at homoerotic WASPs and WASP-adjacent,” Lovett says, smooth and all in one breath. Jon is already laughing, misses Lovett’s voice and his weird rants.

“Very funny,” Tommy calls from his chair, and Jon swivels the phone so Tommy’s probably on the screen. He’s chuckling, but nothing more.

“Don’t be bitter, Thomas. I’ll give you executive producer credit, it’ll be great.”

“You’re a fucking monster,” Tommy tells him, finally laughing for real.

Jon turns the phone away from Tommy. “How’s California?” he asks.

“You know the state is like, pretty big, right?” Lovett says. Jon still can’t see the screen, but he has that fake-concerned voice that he uses when he tells Jon it’s a good thing he’s pretty. Jon used to worry about that, if other people overheard and got the wrong impression, but he’s not Lovett’s boss anymore, so he can just laugh.

“You know what I mean, dickhead,” he says. He holds his hand over his phone, can make out Lovett’s dark eyes and hair, his face a little rounder than when he left DC, shoulders in a grey t-shirt.

“Got stuck in traffic for three hours yesterday, ate seven In-n-Out burgers last week, haven’t left my bed today, so you could say it’s going great,” Lovett tells him.

“Sounds nice,” says Jon. He can’t remember the last time he got up after eight. Lovett’s bed seemed like a good place to spend a day, big and comfy and next to a lot of windows, when Jon saw it after the fundraiser. Lovett gave him a little tour of his house, proud and joking to cover it. That’s when Jon started to see himself out there, next door, maybe, a house like Lovett’s, bright and open, windows open and good smells coming from the garden. Jon's condo’s windows don’t open very far, because he’s too high up, and it feels kind of isolating, sometimes.

“Go outside,” Tommy says. “Go on a hike or to the beach or something, it’ll feel good.”

“Fuck you, Tommy. It _is_ nice, thank you, Jon. _Someone_ appreciates me and my glamorous Hollywood life. We know who’s getting that Oscars shout-out after I win best picture for Brokeback Beach House.”

Jon giggles again, and asks about how Lovett’s writing is going. They chat for a while, and he hands the phone over to Tommy eventually, feels the warm sand beneath his fingers, the sun on the lower half of his face, the cold tip of his beer where it’s buried in the sand to say cool. Tommy’s blonde leg hair is ruffling in the breeze, and Jon nudges his ankle with his little toe. Tommy looks over at him, makes a face, and Lovett shouts, “That’s it! That’s the Oscar clip. Tommy’s repressed WASP face turning emotive and joyful, framed by the sky. Are you naked right now Jon? You should probably be naked. Just for narrative satisfaction. I’m a screenwriter now, I know these things.”

“Fuck off,” Jon calls, laughing and keeps his toes against Tommy’s ankle. Tommy’s voice is low in his ear, and the sun is high in the sky, and Jon feels good.

***

“We have no food,” Tommy announces, looking in the freezer, bent over with his shirt riding up. Jon's eye catches on his body, then moves away. “Plenty of beer, though.”

“Eh, whatever, that’s more important,” Jon says. They’ve been drinking steadily all day, so there’s no way they’re getting to the grocery store.

They order shitty pizza for dinner, a large pie to split. Jon winces when he tries to pull a shirt on to go outside and it rubs against his sunburn, and Tommy tells him, “It’s fine, we’ll just eat on the couch.”

After he puts his plate on the coffee table, full of detritus, Jon slides down until he’s basically horizontal, then shifts, propping his head up on Tommy’s lap. He feels dehydrated and a little woozy, itchy from his sunburn and distracted, like right before he makes a breakthrough on a speech, when he’s been looking at notes for hours and feels like they’re never going to come together.

He’s drumming his fingers on his stomach, unable to stop even though it hurts to press his sunburn, when Tommy places his hand directly on top of his own, fingers landing on Jon's stomach. Jon's hand goes still, and Tommy presses down harder, just for a second. Tommy’s hand is cool from holding his beer, so Jon slides his hand out from under Tommy’s, so his whole stomach can have that nice coolness.

“You need some aloe,” Tommy tells him. Jon blinks, looking up at his face, the underside of his chin, hair a little over his forehead, mouth parted.

“Yeah,” he says, voice coming out low, when Tommy looks expectantly back at him.

“You drunk, man?” Tommy asks. Jon nods, relieved Tommy gets why he’s feeling weird. Tommy lifts his hand from Jon's stomach to get his glass of water, and Jon holds himself up to take a sip. His muscles shake faintly from the effort, and he starts to cough a little as he swallows, looking at Tommy, who’s looking back at him. Tommy takes the water away, patting his chest, and Jon shivers a little when his pinkie touches his nipple. It feels weird, is all.

His hand settles back on Jon's stomach, stroking gently through the hair right above his shorts. Jon wants to squirm, but Tommy might take his hand away then, and the coolness feels good on his hot skin. Tommy’s book is abandoned next to him, and he’s looking at Jon, with a look on his face like he gets sometimes when reading an email from a reporter and is figuring out how to reply best. Tradecraft, he calls it. Jon has never been that good at it.

He turns his head to the side, feeling too exposed looking at Tommy. He half-nuzzles into Tommy’s stomach, covered by his soft long sleeved Wellfleet shirt. Tommy’s other hand settles into his hair, and he scratches his head, a little hesitantly. Jon pushes back, because it feels good, and Tommy scratches harder, nails pressing in on the back of his neck and his head.

Jon makes a little noise, and Tommy tugs his hair a little bit. He can feel, suddenly, his dick getting hard in his shorts, always responsive to people playing with his hair, as much as he tries to stop it. He looks up, hoping he can just get up and deal with it, but Tommy is looking straight at his dick, mouth a little open. Jon blushes, hot with shame, and starts to sit up, but Tommy presses him back down with the hand on his stomach.

“It’s fine,” Tommy says, which Jon knows isn’t true. He turns his face away from Tommy, but his eyes meet, instead, the bulge of Tommy’s dick in his swim shorts. Tommy’s fingers stroke through his hair soothingly. Tommy tells him, low and soft, “It happens.”

Jon looks back up at Tommy. He can feel how wide his eyes are, how fast he’s breathing, how weird he’s being, but he can’t seem to control any part of his body’s reaction. Tommy’s fingers slide under his shorts, brushing over the still-damp hair underneath the waistband, and Jon bites his lip. His finger grazes the head of Jon's dick, and Jon gasps, unable to control it. Tommy cups his head in his hand and raises him up, and Jon goes.

Tommy kisses him. Jon is a little shocked, but it feels good, easy, makes him unable to freak out about what’s happening like he was starting to do. He opens his mouth for Tommy, and Tommy slides his tongue into Jon's mouth, no hesitation. Jon's limbs are arranged weirdly, his torso twisted to kiss Tommy, and Tommy slides his hand from his stomach to his side, slides him over to Tommy’s lap. Jon settles his knees on either side of Tommy’s hips, slides down until he’s pressed against Tommy’s thighs.

Tommy’s enveloping him, stroking up and down his back, still cupping his head, tilting it to kiss Jon's neck. Jon just gives himself over to Tommy’s hands completely. Tommy’s confident and steady, big hands on his body, murmuring into Jon's jaw, and Jon has no idea what’s happening, what he should do, what he wants, just wants.

He nips at Tommy’s bottom lip, a little hesitantly, and Tommy smiles, says, “Fuck, feels good, Jon.” Jon feels a hot rush of pleasure at that, and bites a little harder. Tommy scrapes his nails down Jon's back, and Jon makes a noise, high-pitched.

“Bed?” Tommy asks, pulling back for a second, and Jon nods. Tommy helps him up, drags him to Tommy’s room, pushes him onto his neatly-made bed. He pulls Jon's shorts off, leaving him naked, and Jon is about to feel weird about how hard his dick is when Tommy crawls on top of him and wraps a hand around his thigh, and Jon stops thinking about anything but that. He moves his thighs apart so Tommy can settle inside them more easily, gasping at the feel of Tommy’s shirt against Jon's dick. He pulls helplessly at Tommy’s shirt, too uncoordinated to get it off, and Tommy pulls it off one-handed, shaking it off his arm to the side of the bed.

“Please,” Jon babbles, “more, c’mon, Tommy.” He’s never been out of control like this before, unable to stop himself from saying dumb shit, hips moving unconsciously. Shoving Tommy’s shorts off, he squirms against him, until Tommy presses his shoulder down against the bed. Jon stills, feeling grounded by Tommy’s weight pressing down on him.

Tommy grips Jon's dick with his other hand, and Jon gasps, helplessly. It’s so intense, Tommy totally covering him, Jon unable to think of anything besides the feel of Tommy, his murmurs of praise, the way his eyelashes look up close. Jon has to close his eyes because it’s too much, but that just makes the sensation even more intense.

He tilts his hips up into Tommy’s hand, and Tommy takes his hand away. Jon gasps, forlorn, and Tommy smacks his hip a little. “Stay still,” he says, and Jon nods, just needing Tommy to touch his dick again. Tommy’s hand drifts from his shoulder to the center of his chest, and Jon tilts his head back, not knowing why. Suddenly, Tommy’s fingers are spread across the base of Jon’s neck, pressing down, just a bit. Jon can still breathe, but it’s shallow, labored, utterly conscious of Tommy’s hand. Tommy thumbs over the head of Jon’s dick, a fingernail just barely pressing into the slit. Jon doesn’t know where his hands are, they’re just pulling Tommy closer, gripping onto his body, holding on for dear life.

He loses himself for a little while, just sensation without conscious thought. He does what Tommy tells him to do, smiles when Tommy tells him he’s doing good, looking great, feeling perfect. He keeps his shaking thigh where Tommy moves it to, holds still when Tommy slides frantically against Jon’s stomach, comes when he says, “Fuck, Jon, come for me.”

The ocean waves drift back into Jon's ears first, when he comes back to himself. Then he looks down, and his stomach, from his ribs to his hips, is covered in come, vivid against his red skin. He flushes hotly, because some of it’s his, and some of it’s Tommy’s, and he just -- he jerks off in the shower, mostly, washes it down the drain, and it’s just a lot. To have it on him. He’s not quite grossed out, but there’s shame, creeping through his body until it reaches the center, battling with his desire to look at it, look at himself like this.

One big, veined hand reaches into Jon's vision, strokes through the come, spreading it. The shame seems to rush out his skin where Tommy’s touching him, giving him something to focus on. Jon's mouth is open, and he can’t seem to close it. Tommy brings his hand up, rests his thumb gently on his bottom lip. Jon's mouth opens wider, and he sucks Tommy’s thumb, tongue running over the wrinkles of his knuckles, tasting come, salty and new.

“Jesus, Jon,” Tommy says, low. Jon realizes what he’s doing, how fucking weird it is, and he pulls back, Tommy removing his thumb like it was never there.

Jon sees that his hand is shaking where it’s resting on Tommy’s thigh, next to him on the bed. It feels disconnected from his body, reacting without any input from Jon’s brain. Tommy grabs a tissue from his bedside table and wipes Jon up, carefully, letting Jon look at the ceiling and wonder what the fuck he’s doing. When he’s reasonably clean, Tommy pulls him back in, giving Jon space to push him away. Jon should, probably, but he doesn’t want to, just wants to be as close to Tommy as possible, still.

He thinks he won’t be able to sleep, but Tommy’s hand is low on his back, rubbing small circles, and his breathing is deep and steady, and Jon drifts off.

***

In the morning, they wake up late, tangled together, sun high in the sky. Tommy gives Jon the first shower, and he takes it without argument. Jon doesn’t think about anything in the shower, doesn’t touch his dick, doesn’t think about the stiff stickiness he’s washing off his stomach.

“Wanna get a breakfast burrito?” Tommy asks, when they’re both dressed and clean and not at all like they were last night.

“Sure,” Jon agrees. It’ll be good to get some air, not look at the couch right at this moment. They have to drive back to DC tonight, early enough that the traffic isn’t unbearable, so Jon can’t waste the whole day feeling weird, has to knock himself out of whatever loop his thoughts are stuck on.

The seat belt cuts into Jon's sunburned chest, and it hurts, but Jon keeps it buckled, knows Tommy gets stressed out when people don't wear seat belts. Tommy drives them, while Jon scrolls through the playlist, looking for something he wants to listen to. He hasn’t found anything by the time they pull up at the restaurant, but he hops out of the car and offers to get two burritos and coffees to go. Tommy nods, looking at him, too close for comfort.

When he gets back, Tommy’s put on James Taylor, “You’ve Got A Friend.” “A little too on-the-nose, yeah?” Tommy asks, laughing.

“Nah,” Jon says. “It’s good.” It transitions to Beach Boys, “Kokomo,” and they both hum along as Tommy pulls them back onto the road.

“So, I was thinking about California,” Tommy says, eyes on the horizon line where the road meets sky.

“Yeah?” Jon says.

“I was thinking, Lovett’s got the White House covered, but what about the campaign trail? Like, a show about it?”

Jon thinks about it. He thinks about watching Tommy grow up in Iowa, watching him cry and watching him learn to yell at reporters, then call them later to apologize. Thinks about the endless nights in their apartment in Chicago, their months-long basketball tournament, score kept religiously on an email thread, thinks about being scared and being hopeful and being young and dumb and ready to believe in something big.

“That sounds great,” Jon says, looking over at Tommy, really looking for the first time this morning. “That’s a really good idea, Tommy.”

Tommy looks over at him and smiles. He’s haloed by the sun again, and it feels right. Jon keeps watching as he looks back to the road, guiding them home.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](https://www.tumblr.com/dashboard/blog/veryspecificfantasies) on tumblr, screaming, as always.


End file.
